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Avoiding the news is a preoccupation of mine. This will not be an exegesis, satirical, tedious or otherwise on that subject. But it is a quick factoid, explaining that the Internet has virtually made it impossible for me to not see the headlines in some side bar. Even when I’m only reading the @#%&*! comics! That’s how I read the news today (August 20). Oh boy. . ..

While I often allude to a boyhood in the Bronx, NY, where I was born ( the hospital a block from Manhattan—which made all the difference ), for purposes of being clear about one point in this piece, I admit I graduated high school in New Jersey. That’s why I will now tell you about Stevie Butler. I went to high school with him and his older brother Brian—Brian and I were born a few days apart in the same year. Their parents had a general store, maybe a football field’s distance away from the school. See, if it were in the Bronx, it would have been called a candy store.

Due to the vagaries of life & my incredible smarts ( mostly incredible for the fact each year I seemed to lose an IQ point ), even though Brian and I were identical in age, I was a Senior, he was a Junior & Stevie was a freshman, as was my sister. The year after I graduated, I was in a band & the times they were a changin’. Their mother was my boss for two summers I worked for the Parks & Recreation Dept. Sadly, there was no colleague the equal of Rashida Jones.

So, there was a connection. Two years after high school, Brian & I went to sign up at the US Armed Forces Draft Board in New Brunswick together. Despite the well intentioned advice from Arlo Guthrie, we did not walk in holding hands & sing a chorus of Alice’s Restaurant, and then walk out. One, because we didn’t want them to think we ” were both faggots ( sic )”. Two, I couldn’t sing harmony to save my ass. Literally. The thread which ties my life to others is so unbelievable, it’s more suited for the novel I never intend to write. I can’t do it here. Which spares us all. For now.

In that era, most guys I knew had grown their hair long, mustache and/or beard optional. For authority figures, it was believed to be a solid tipoff that person was doing some kind of drugs. It may strain credulity, but at 18 ( some of this ground covered in a previous episode ) I chose not to smoke, drink or do dope. Maybe it was the Catholic training or maybe it was I just wanted to save all my resources for girls & music. This was also the year I met another person who played a major part in my music history. His name was David Sutch–he was larger than life, and his did not end well.

I’d see Stevie at gigs & parties, he was affable, generous and blunt. He did have an annoying habit of busting me for not going out into the world & examining every possibility, in every corner. My retort was I didn’t need to, I had an imagination. The irony of my relationship with him will show up later in this. Despite what my so called other friends & acquaintances, family too, thought then, I was out doing other things. It just wasn’t with that old bunch. As a new decade opened, I jointly started a unisex clothing shop in Flemington N.J. with a college buddy, and I’d met several girls from that Hunterdon County area.

A life long habit of personal high impact-short lived jobs began with that store. About a year after leaving the store in a clash over business styles, I heard one of the girls Rita, had been hit by a car, while walking. Her injuries were extensive, but by the time I got the news, she was home and slowly mending. Rita had been a friendly and attractive girl, who came into the shop a lot and any ulterior motives aside, I went to visit her, hoping to cheer her up. She had some bad physical scars, all over. Though she was in decent spirits when I visited, one of her friends told me, she was good day, bad day. Something about her made me think Steve Butler could help bring back a healthy spark to her wounded psyche. He had a way with chicks.

I promised Rita I’d come back and I did. This time I took Stevie, he was up for it too, and because I was interested in one of her friends, Jaye, it was only natural for Steve to hang with Rita. I just knew Steve & Rita would like each other. I was right. Somehow I lost track of Steve after he got involved with her—my attachments to girls sometimes as short as my jobs. Their relationship lasted awhile, and I know he helped her recovery.

Next thing I knew about him, he was traveling with another girl, his hair down to his waist, and according to Brian, they were in Los Angeles. Everybody got excited when word was out, Stevie was going to appear on a popular television game show To Tell the Truth. The hook—lame, but tailor made for that era— He and the girl were placed, standing with their backs to the audience, the panel had to guess who was the boy or the girl. Yikes! We laughed, we cried–my pals got high, I didn’t. I was envious of Stevie being on TV. I can’t recall, but I think he & his gf made it onto the original Price Is Right that same week.It might even be on YouTube now—I don’t know and I don’t want to either.

Steve lived in a cave for a phase, on one of the Hawaiian Islands. Mostly he traveled the world. I’d get picture postcards from all over the planet, many with the same message— ” have you left the house yet?” I resented it after a while. But he wasn’t wrong. Experience had made me even more solitary, writing songs & collaborating with several others. My body lived locally—my mind traveled globally. Then I’d write a song. One made a sentimental reference to a friend like Stevie and a guy like me & a girl. I was sure it would be a hit. Just like me, it didn’t go too far. But it did leave the house, winding up no doubt in circular files from NYC to L.A. with a stop in Nashville.

In 1986 I was doing a thankless gig at a street fair in Frenchtown N.J. I’d invited an old friend, but he had not shown up. Much to my happy amazement, another, very unexpected person, did— Stevie. He’d just come back from Tibet (!), spoken with our friend Dennis ( the no-show ) & decided he’d try to sell some of the items ( no! not drugs ) he’d brought back from Asia. Doing my usual, “ I’d like to buy something, man , but I’m doing this gig free ” act, I shook his hand. Being Stevie, he said—“…just pick out a few things, they’re yours. It’ll be your pay for playing.” Chambers of Commerce could learn from guys like him. Ex-cave dwellers being more giving than say, fat white blowhards. I chose a great cap & a scarf, which I subsequently employed as gifts for two women. I’d told him I might do just that & he smiled. But the third thing, a small wooden slide whistle, resides just a foot away from this keyboard.

That was the last time I saw Steve Butler. Two years later, he boarded a plane in London for NYC. It was Pan Am Flight 103and it blew up over Lockerbie, Scotland. The story doesn’t end there. That’s why I’m stopping this one. And for the moment, I won’t be leaving the house.

Not so long ago, a bunch of actors sat around a make believe Manhattan coffee house set. All acting as if they were friends! One day they were in contract negotiations. That can go a few ways. One or two of the ensemble can emerge with the big money. The others can ride in the back seat or take a Hollywood hike. That hike usually ends up in a place called Oblivion.

But holy smokes! these men & women actually had become friends. They presented a united front that would’ve made the 4 Musketeers proud (that’s right 4!), Dumas.* They got a big raise, which helps facilitate being buddies. Next time they sat around that set, they were millionaires, who were acting. And real friends!

Oh, for friends like those. Or like Sam Raimi who routinely gives his brother Ted & old pal Bruce Campbell roles. In major movies! What about Ron Howard? There was a time he was the hottest young director in the world. He was also Opie. And Opie never failed to put his fugly brother Clint, his dad & even his mom into a flick. Jeez Looeez–even Eagles got back together. Well, except for Don Felder. I am like Don. Without the guitar chops or the credits. What’s he complaining about? he’s got Bruce Greenwood as a bud.

Then there’s the Kates. Every Kate who acts is married to a director. They are talented women and would get work regardless. I’d hire them. I love Kates. If you’re a Kate–call me. I only get Kathys. Lots & lots of Kathys. If I got a Kate, bet she’d be a Shakespearian one. Call me Puck, but maybe I should go for a Kim, a Debbie or even a Frances at this point. Weren’t they a girl group in the Sixties?

Me? I couldn’t get a guy who said he loved me like a brother to give me a gig when I was starving. Probably because I’m usually a pain in the ass. And it was ‘like’ a brother. Had we been real brothers, I’m sure I’d be working & much too busy/content to be saying this. Being very self aware, I realize I am not friend material. Like some men are better uncles than dads. As a friend, I’m better as a foil.

So, recently I was somewhat surprised when my sister suggested to one of her friends, I might be able to help him with a book project. [Her m.o. is to tell my old high school girlfriends, they were lucky I dumped them.] Sure, there was no advance money–you want me to die from shock? The fun, though, didn’t stop there.

There was an old, what’s the word? old friend maybe? I hadn’t seen in 30 years. Turns out the book project guy & a long lost guy were in touch. Breaking one of my many life rules, I emailed the old friend. I did not ask for a job, a loan or why he and the ‘like’ a brother guy, got to have sex with the woman meant for me by the gods, and I didn’t get her. I knew why. Well, because I just knew damn it.

My life ain’t Entourage. Now those guys know how to be friends and Musketeers. It sure isn’t Friends–the only Friend who could’ve been mine was Ross & he’d only remember me as the guy who stiffed him on a Bar Mitzvah gift. Hey! his gift was my eternal damnation. The nuns told me going to Jewish ceremonies would make Jesus sad. Probably because he had a non Jew pal who stiffed him at his bar Mitzvah, I guess. They also said I’d be ensured a one way to Hell! Nuns, btw rarely make good friends.

Back to the future: so I email this old friend, and then. . .. What? Sorry, I need to go. I’m mediating a possible new reunion of Simon & Garfunkel. The Really Old Friends Tour. Wish me luck, I’m doing it for the love.